The Giant Rat of Sumatra
by StArBarD
Summary: After the fall, Mycroft sends John to a mysterous island to solve a series of murders that appear to have been commited by an island superstition, but is some thing darker working against the Doctor? This was the story for which the world was not yet prepared.
1. Chapter 1

John leaned against the railing and inhaled the salt air deeply, feeling the cool spray mist across his hot face and the warming caresses of the sun wipe it away.

He opened his eyes and continued watching the horizon swaying rhythmically to the rocking of the boat.

"It's much easier to stand the waves on deck." John thought. "I don't know why I spent so much damn time in my cabin."

John knew why though: He had been trying to deny he was taking this trip, and the only way he could was to escape into sleep.

He'd slept most of the boat ride, treating this trip as a miniature vacation, but finally he couldn't stand dozing anymore and he needed the sun on his face; he needed to escape from the small hot cramped dark swaying room that served as both his sanctuary and his jail.

He'd been surprised when he stepped out on deck. For one thing there were many more passengers than he would have though, dozens of them chatting happily and examining small things and comparing technologies.

Also, he stepped out of the darkness into a beautiful world. The sea was a crisp, clear blue that looked as pristine as glass and the sky was a pale, speckled reflection of it. The white clouds that skimmed the surface of the water, almost brushing against the horizon, looked like popcorn and did nothing to impede the dazzling heat of the sun pounding on the back of John's neck. But far from being uncomfortable, the heat was nice when coupled with the refreshing gust of wind from the ocean.

Now John didn't want to go back to his room, he'd spent hours on deck strolling up and down the boat looking out into the endless blue, straining against the glare of the sun against the sparkling waters searching for the island they were going to eventually be disembarking upon.

The island of Uffa, located somewhere in the sea God-knows-where. Apparently very far away from Jolly old England, if Mycroft was anything to go by. Still they spoke English, and that was good enough for John, apparently.

John's expression soured and he spat over the railing into the ocean. Mycroft was still a poisonous person to him, even now, after…

John stood erect and shook his head purposefully. His therapist had warned him about not letting go, about clinging onto pain, but he just couldn't help counting the months that passed. It had been almost exactly a year and a half. Eighteen months soon.

Mycroft's betrayal never did sit right with him, and it probably never would. He knew what his dear old mom (god bless her) would have said about forgiveness, especially right towards the end when she was extolling Christian virtues that she was hesitant to apply, but he couldn't forgive him.

He just couldn't.

It was easy to say that the whole thing was Mycroft's fault and try and place the hate squarely on him, but that wasn't entirely true. Moriarty had planned it, and everyone helped execute it. Even John.

John blinked back tears. An automatic response that he'd learned to stop fighting after a few months. He would have hoped that after a few sessions with a therapist he could have gotten over the urge to cry but apparently it was more deeply rooted in him that she had expected, or just chatting couldn't solve anything alone or whatever she had said to wash her hands of his failure to cope.

John watched as a comically large cloud billowed up over the horizon. It was unusually tinted purple and John watched it closely, suspicious that it might be Uffa drawing steadily closer. A tentative tear brimmed over his lid and slid down his face while John emotionlessly decided that the cloud was just a cloud. He caught the tear with his thumb and rubbed it away.

He gazed over the other passengers silently. They were all biologists, that much was obvious. As though the matching khaki shorts, save the planet tee-shirts and vest pockets filled with test tubes weren't obvious enough, John caught snips of conversation about rare birds and other the wildlife on Uffa.

He laughed to himself silently, wondering "How many biologists are here for the same reason as me? I'll bet half are actually interested in wildlife and half just want to catch The Giant Rat of Sumatra."

John smiled. "The Giant Rat of Sumatra. Oh God…"

He was having one of those rare moments of reflection where he asked himself "What am I doing here?" and honestly considered the answer.

It wasn't the first time Mycroft had abducted him, actually it was closer to the fifth or sixth time; but it was the first time John didn't want to go.

He'd had some trouble with the chip and pin machine at the store again and he was just finishing slamming his fist into its side when the screen lit up with a simple, yet sinister demand.

"Get into the car John."

John turned and looked out of the store and saw a black car with tinted windows pull up outside. He stared at it for a moment, letting turbulent emotions such as rage, doubt and worry run over him briefly like a hand that passes over dust, and then was wiped clean. He didn't care for Mycroft anymore. There was nothing the older Holmes brother could do or say that would make him want to see him. He escaped out the back door of the store and walked home, knowing full well that the CCTV cameras were following him with their electronic eyes.

The next day he stopped at an ATM which lit up immediately as he approached it.

"Please get into the car John."

A black car pulled up right behind him and a man in a tall black suit with shades that covered half of his grim face stepped out, opening the door and motioning John to get inside.

John felt a thrill of fear, but it was swallowed by an even more powerful emotion. Defiance.

He jabbed his cane at the man pointedly and said with determination "No." and limped down the street until he found another ATM.

The day after John was walking to his job and he came across a street sign that blinked catatonically with orange lights "Construction Road Closed."

As he came closer to it, the sign suddenly flickered "Last time I ask nicely. Please get into the car John."

A black car speed up and screeched to a halt against the curb. John started walking in the opposite direction as quickly as his psychosomatic limp would allow. His limp had returned with a vengeance only a few months after Sherlock had… gone. The first four months were definitely the hardest and when his limp returned he was crushed, but as time went on he had learned to deal with it.

"Time does not heal all wounds, but in time you can bear all pain." That was John's new motto.

The car had raced forward and cut off John's attempt to cross the street. Two men had jumped out of the back and had grabbed him, tossing him into the car where Anthea waited, texting as usual.

"I'm serious! I don't want to see him." John cried as the driver floored the gas and sped away.

"Well he -really- wants to see you." Anthea said looking up slightly from her keypad.

"Tsk. Why doesn't he just phone me for a change?"

"He says you've blocked his number."

In fact, he had.

He didn't want to see, hear or have anything to do with the oldest Holmes brother. He was mad at him, disgusted with him, but more than anything else Mycroft reminded him of Sherlock. He was having enough trouble coping on his own, he didn't need another painful reminder of his friend. He had plenty of those lying around his flat.

"Have a seat, John."

John looked up startled. He had been lost in thought so deeply that he had been in a daze while Anthea led him to a building and into a room where Mycroft would be waiting. He hadn't even noticed him walk in.

God, he was beginning to sound like Sherlock.

John smiled sardonically "That's okay; I don't plan on staying that long."

Mycroft faltered slightly. "Oh." He said, letting the brief unsettling silence drift between them.

John waited for Mycroft to break the silence, but just being in the room with him angered him beyond the point of simple frustration. He felt like a kettle, steaming mad and preparing to scream. Sherlock flashed in and out of his mind, quipping about this or that, scathingly describing his brother. He had once described him as the most dangerous man in all of London, his arch-nemesis. As it turned out all of his predictions came true.

"Can we hurry this along? I'm late for work." John growled through gritted teeth, still fighting to smile.

"Don't worry about your job, I—"

"Pulled some strings. Yeah. Great. Fine. What do you want?"

The older Holmes brother stared at him, as if uncertain whether to accept John's anger or to fight back. In the end he resigned himself to calmly, and impartially talking in a business-like manner.

"What do you know of the Giant Rat of Sumatra?" he asked.

"Nothing." John snapped.

"Good." Mycroft nodded. "There is a job I would-"

"Wait." John interrupted him. "If you're calling in a favor, forget it. I don't want to do anything for you, or relating to you. I don't even want to see you. I'm still mad at you. Get your own men to do it, I'm out of here."

John turned to leave and Mycroft couldn't stand the curt tone in his voice any longer.

"Sit –down- John." He barked.

John halted, but he still refused to take the lone empty chair in the room. He wasn't in any mood to put up with mysteries.

"I'm not calling in a favor. You should know me better than that by now. I'm hiring you for a job."

John snorted. "Seriously?" Mycroft glared at him, clearly displeased. John didn't care.

He continued: "You are the only man I can place on this. I wouldn't look to you if I had –any- other choice. I'm well aware of your… reservations."

John rolled his eyes. He felt like a child being rude to his least favorite teacher, but Mycroft had it coming. Reservations? John despised Mycroft. He didn't know how the man slept at night.

"But my own men can't handle it. I cannot trust them in this particular nature."

"And you can trust me?" John asked, feeling a vein of acid creep up in his voice.

Mycroft folded his hands in his lap, the conversation was finally going the way he'd planned it and from this point on he held all of the cards.

"Lives are at stake. I trust you to make a good decision when placed in a serious situation."

"Ha-ha." John faked a laugh "Right, I see how it is. Good-bye."

He turned to leave again, determined not to get pulled into whatever Mycroft was hinting at.

"Mycroft thinks he can play me and get me back on his side, but there is one thing he doesn't expect, one thing he cannot plan for no matter how smart he thinks he is: I just don't give a damn." John thought swaying precariously and leaning heavily on his cane.

"If you leave this room, you might as well leave London." Mycroft said calmly.

John stopped, hating himself so much for doing so. The door was so close, he could just reach out and not have to worry about Mycroft ever again, but he hesitantly turned around.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Mycroft picked up two manila folders from off the table. One of these he tucked securely under his arm, and the other one he opened and pulled out some papers, glancing over these with a cursory remark.

"I've been through your finances once or twice. You should know by now the situation you have found yourself in."

John flinched at the harsh reality. He knew it, he'd been avoiding it, and the last person who he needed to remind him of it was Mycroft Holmes.

Therapy was expensive and his job wasn't the best. He'd had to cut back on his hours after Sherlock had…gone and his rent was slowly eating away at his meager savings. He'd spent several sleepless nights juggling his options, contemplating leaving London, asking Harry for help or even getting another flat share but night after night he'd come to a mental standstill without a decision.

He couldn't ask Harry. She was having enough problems on her own and he didn't want to have any part of that. Whenever he thought of possibly having another flat mate he ached inside and realized that no one would or ever could take Sherlock's place. No one would want to share a flat with him. As for leaving…

"Ah London… You can't afford to stay, can't bear to live anywhere else?" Mycroft said, allowing a slight smile to cross his face in the shadow of a moment. In a flash it was gone and the semblance of friendliness was also dissipated.

John opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find the words to explain his reluctance, yet not willing to share these, his deepest feelings, with Mycroft. London was –his- town. The town that he knew like the back of his hand, that he helped and that he (antipathy aside) loved. John couldn't think of London without thinking of Sherlock. They were forever entwined in his mind; Sherlock was still there somewhere, racing the streets and avenues, lost in the labyrinth of brick and concrete.

John thought of leaving. Oh how he thought, long and hard, about leaving. Here he was, trying to release all of the pain and sorrow, yet wrapped up in Sherlock's memories, in Sherlock's city. If he left London he could leave Sherlock. Of that he was certain.

But did he want to leave? No, not really. He didn't want to leave London or Sherlock. He thought that maybe he could just grow accustomed to the pain and memories. That he could just deal with it and maybe someday he could cope. His pain defined him, and he wasn't thrilled at the threat of letting it go.

"So what?" He asked, though he had a pretty good feeling where Mycroft was going.

Mycroft had only handed him the folder beneath his arm. Something in his manner told John that it would explain everything.

Since then he'd been getting texts from Mycroft (whose number he'd reluctantly un-blocked) and everything had been arranged for his trip to Uffa to investigate a series of curious murders that the natives claimed were committed by a giant rat.

A giant rat that apparently came from Sumatra, though John was assured that Uffa was far, far away from Sumatra.

Far,far away from anywhere as a matter of fact.

John's phone chimed and he realized that for some reason he had reception in the middle of the ocean. After he had left England his phone had been useless.

A short text from Mycroft and John was already fighting the urge to pitch his phone into the open waters.

"Work is the best antidote for sorrow John. -MH"

"Screw yourself." John muttered darkly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sory it took so long to update. Well, no I'm not. I write when I'm sure what I'm writing is art; when I can put all of myself into my work. The results are usually good. Those who read this will be happy to hear that Chapter three is only a few hours from completion, though I'm going to wait until I've made headway in Chapter 4 before I update. :) It builds suspense.**

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The first clue John had that he was approaching his ultimate destination was the horrible screeching of sea gulls that had attached themselves to the boat. The jarring wail set his teeth on edge and drove him from where he was slouched comfortably at the starboard side of the boat towards the front where the noise of the gulls was somehow neutralized.

The stern of the boat thrust itself out of the water majestically and for a moment John felt as though he were flying, but once the moment had past he suffered the familiar sensation of falling.

He momentarily lost his balance and had to swallow a cry as he wrapped his arms around the railing of the boat, his legs sliding on the smooth wood down, down, down towards the blue water.

For one hellish, irrational moment John imagined the boat jutting straight up out of the water like the Titanic, and that if he eased his grip even one little bit, he would plummet hundreds of feet down, hitting the water, which would feel like concrete, with a sickening thud.

But the boat eased itself out of the rough wave and in another moment it continued riding over brief choppy swells. John eased his grip on the metal rail, but he couldn't ease the tension in his chest.

Breathing deeply and staring at the horizon, he tried to untangle his thoughts.

Falling; the most prominent nightmare. The issue that would never cease revisiting him in reality.

John snorted and the knots in his chest uncurled a bit further, "No surprise there." He thought basking in the hot sun which baked the clamminess away from the beads of cold sweat which had broken out on his forehead.

"There's no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole."

John choked on the salt air. He was about to have an episode; he could feel it rising, swelling, preparing to break over him.

In a panic he bolted down the deck and threw open the door that led to the maze of claustrophobic hallways.

John didn't remember how he made it to his room; he only remembers collapsing onto the bed with beads of sweat rolling down his face, panting heavily.

He remembers thinking "Aw, God It's going to be bad this time. It's going to be so bad this time. I never should have come here."

The rest of the night, bleeding into the next day was a blur between his fitful dreams and the hellish waking hours.

He fell asleep and he fell through Afghanistan and he fell and fell and fell.

He blinked in a dream and in a puff of smoke the group of soldiers around him disappeared.

He blinked in reality to find that his leg was on fire; burning.

He would have given anything for anybody to have been there to tell him that he was going to be alright or even just to sit with him, but he had no such luck. His lot was to suffer alone and learn how to heal. Not himself, but others.

He drifted blissfully away from the pain gnawing at his leg only to find himself caught in a dream, choking on sand which floated magically out of the desert with no wind. The air was placid and dead.

John waited, mouth closed, eyes opened. He had the feeling something was about to happen. The scene was set for action; he didn't have nightmares for nothing after all.

"I'll bet that they're waiting for us." A young voice says darkly from behind him.

John knows that he will regret his actions, but he can't help himself. It was a dream, and no matter what he thought or what he wanted he was lead along like a puppet, jerked in directions with no way to steer himself. He turns around.

"What was that Tom?" a younger John Watson asks his friend who sat propped against his tent, looking out into the slumbering city where a few yellow lights flickered.

"I bet they're out there somewhere; waiting for us to move. Waiting for us to sleep."

"If they are they're going to have a hard time of it. They didn't count on one paranoid soldier to stand patrol all night."

"Ha-ha John." Tom turns and John notices he looks different. His eyes are…bluer. His hair is…longer. He is taller.

John realizes with horror that Tom has been changed into the vision of Sherlock, but what can he do? It was a dream.

Tom was Tom, no matter what he looked like. He was still Tom and this was still a nightmare, driving onwards towards its inevitable conclusion.

In reality, John moaned in his sleep. "No…"

In the dream Tom whispers at a frightened John as dusk collapsed upon them like a heavy blanket.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, what was that?"

"Bomb. Big one."

"In the city?" John looks up to the red glow that hovers over the roof tops

"Sounded like the damn school."

"Should we help?"

Tom shakes his head grimly, "No orders yet."

"Why would they do that?" John just can't believe that someone could destroy their own buildings.

"Who knows?"

"Hey…Tom?" John asks hesitantly.

"Yeah John?" The blue eyes are dyed gray in the glow of the flames that lick the black clouds of smoke.

John's voice is weak and trembling, he cannot control his emotions. For a moment he forgets that it's all just a memory.

"Do you ever…pray?"

Tom looks at him quizzically. It reminds John so much of Sherlock that it aches.

"You mean like, to God?"

"Yeah."

There is a pause between them. It's not uncomfortable, but Tom needs to think. While he thinks, a scream like the shrill whistle of a steaming teapot breaks out from the city and fades away into nothingness.

"I never believed in God before this place." The response is so quiet that John almost misses it, but the impact of the statement is forever burned into his mind.

Morning crashes down upon them like thunder and boots rumble past where they lay. Echoing shots from an automatic rifle beat against John's head like a white hot poker and Tom's voice drifts serenely from nearby.

"I'm in hell, so I might as well pray. You know what they say: there's no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole."

John is clutching something. His eyes are squeezed shut, so he doesn't know what. He just knows that if he lets go it's all over.

"Pray for me?" John opens his eyes.

It's Tom. Blood is spurting from in between John's fingers which are pressed into a gaping hole that was blown into his chest in the struggle. He knows it's hopeless.

He always knows.

He always has the same dreams.

Tom always dies.

But this time it was different; this time it wasn't Tom's hazel eyes staring up at him from the yellow sand, it was Sherlock's blue eyes gazing up at the cloudy gray sky; rivulets of blood pouring from his black hair and the heart beating in his wrist tapering off into nothingness.

John woke swallowing a scream. He shoved his fist into his mouth just in time to muffle the sound into an agonized groan. His leg was on fire.

It felt as though someone had come to him in the night and had sawed it off just below the knee, leaving him inexplicably in the worst pain he'd ever felt in his life.

John sat up in bed, wiping foaming sweat from his clammy forehead. It was the exact same routine every morning; suffer for a few minutes until the nightmares were dulled by time, then when the pain was somewhat bearable shuffle onwards towards the day.

"Worst pain in my life. Yeah right." He muttered slipping out of his wet clothes. "Worst pain until tomorrow morning."

John lay back upon his bed, cool sheets feeling wonderful against his hot back.

"I…I'm not sure I can keep this up." He whispered to himself in the darkness of his cabin. When he closed his eyes the dark little room felt like a crypt. At that moment, with the pain bleeding into his leg and up his thigh, his hand trembling on top of his stomach and the kaleidoscope of memories pounding away on his brain he wouldn't have minded so much the thought of being buried alive. It would have been just one more thing to learn to deal with.

John just couldn't imagine himself doing this day after day for the rest of his life. When would the nightmares end? When would he go back to being normal? Would the pain and fear become his new normal over time?

No, he couldn't accept that.

"Damn you Mycroft," John seethed clutching his leg as the throbbing began to diminish. "Damn you, damn you, damn you."

Was it fair to blame the elder Holmes for all of his troubles? No, not really.

Mycroft wasn't in that desert and Mycroft wasn't holding that damn gun but he sure as hell was in the room with John. Just as surely as if John could see him at the end of his bed grinding a white-hot iron into his calf.

Thoughts of Mycroft would inevitably lead to Sherlock. Sherlock would inevitably lead to the fall. The fall would eventually take him back to the war. The war? Well, who knows where he could go from there?

John was wide awake, but the gentle rocking of the boat was soothing him back into a stupor. He tried not to think of anything and the pain ebbed away naturally. He might have gone back to sleep, if he could have ignored his racing heart.

The walls were too close, the room too dark, too hot; everything was too much.

John seized his cane and decided to go back on board the deck. He had to escape from his tomb, from his solitude and break back into the world of the living.

He had to.


	3. Chapter 3

John found himself back at the stern of the boat before too long, watching the sun rise over the waters like a glimmering red and white jewel which bled into the indigo sea. The waves sparkled like diamonds and silver fish shot up out of the water like immaculate bullets, shimmering in the meager light of the rising sun.

The cool night air cut across the boat and whipped John's hair with the scent of salt and wood. He was impossibly calm.

The sun finished its bleeding into the ocean and began to catch fire, turning from the deepest shade of orange, to a blazing yellow, until it ascended so high it turned into a white that was painful to behold, and John turned his face away.

Even the waves shot the blades of white light into John's eyes with searing flashes, reflecting the sun's magnificence with dazzling thrusts of rainbow light.

John wondered if breakfast would be ready anytime soon.

He turned from the morning and cut across the boat; until he reached the other side where he could watch the night disappear into the rim of the world, like a creeping shadow fleeing from a giant candle. The waves caught the darkness, held it in their white hands, and let it run away like folds of black silk.

The twinkling of the sun's reflected light upon the waves against the shadow of the black sky reminded him of the stars, appearing and disappearing sporadically, as though they had a mind of their own.

As John watched the last of the darkness leak into the horizon and dawn's rosy fingers crept across the sky, he saw a shadow which refused to be banished by the morning's light.

Against the pale, wane horizon a vague, purplish smear shot up from the lightening sea. Its mountainous appearance put John in mind of the cloud he saw the other day, but as he watched it, the shape did not seem to change. Rather it came closer and closer to the boat without any of the lightness of a cloud at all.

"Hum," John mused, thinking himself alone enough to afford talking to himself. "That must be Uffa."

"Good show, my boy!" A deep, booming voice leapt up at John's shoulder and slapped him roughly on the back.

John's heart leapt into his throat as he struggled to hold back a cry, he scurried away from the stranger.

"Oh hohoho!" the stranger chortled throatily with amusement. "Now, now; I didn't mean to scare you, lad!"

John took the enormous man in at a glance; at almost six feet tall, with a great barrel chest threatening to burst from the confines of a thin, tan shirt and massive arms rippling with muscle he resembled a professional wrestler. He sported a long, scraggily black beard, which seemed to encompass his whole head; the largest head that John had ever seen, framed by a peculiar movement of his hair that was plastered to his damp forehead and shiny black eyes that sparkled with good humor.

Which was fortunate, for otherwise John would have felt extremely intimidated by the hulking giant of a man who had crept upon him so easily.

The aforementioned giant extended his great hand, covered in thick black fur in a gesture for a hand shake, which John reluctantly took. The grip of the huge man was firm, but not crushing; which was reassuring, but the furious fashion with which he jerked John's arm up and down made him wince in pain.

"Professor George Edward Challenger, pleased to meet ya, lad. I've been looking for Uffa ever since I heard the captain mention we'd be arriving early in the morning. Couldn't sleep. Unlucky business that you found it first! But I guess it's providence! You've got good eyes lad! What do they call you?"

John freed his arm from Challenger's iron clasp and gathered his thoughts, as his head stopped spinning and he regained his balance.

" Um, Watson, John Watson." He nodded smiling. "You, ah…you startled me."

"Well, Watsonjohnwatson, you startled me." Challenger growled looking up to the distant island. "I've been scanning the horizon for hours, imagine my surprise when this young fellah comes up and points out Uffa without batting an eyelash. I was nearly beside myself."

"Hmm." John said noncommittally. He secretly made a note to himself that Challenger seemed rather competitive, and that he reminded him inexplicably of a bull, but didn't bother to muse further than that.

"I've come In search of an exciting new discovery in the field of biology, myself; what could a lad like you be doing on a ship like this?"

" Um." John thought of a lie quickly. "I have some family on Uffa. They're going through some trouble. I thought I might come and see if they're okay."

Challenger cocked one of his bushy eyebrows curiously, and shook his massive head.

"Could it be the island fever? _Mendax pestis_?" He asked; his voice seemed to be vibrating the planks of the boat beneath John.

"It could be." John said, knowing that he had no idea what Challenger, who probably had extensive knowledge of the island from doing _actual_ research, was saying. One thing he did know, he had never heard of Mendax pestis. As a doctor it should have triggered a memory.

"Or maybe they were attacked by the plague of the island, the venomous _Sanguisufa rusa?_"

"I suppose it's possible."

"Or worse still, they may've lost their home in the great fire a week prior!" Challenger boomed, probably waking the people sleeping below deck with his enormous rumbling voice.

"You know, I think that might be it." John said finally, hoping that Challenger would offer condolences and leave him to his thoughts.

"And do _you_ know," He growled, "That I can't stand liars!"

Startled, John turned to find the black, blazing eyes boring into him, his muscular arms thrown into the sky like an ape preparing for battle, and the barely-visible face beneath the tendrils of hair turning a livid shade of red.

"_Mendax pestis_ is the liar's plague; which, I dare say; you have your fair share of! The _Sanguisufa rusa_ is not a medical term, but a poetic term for a red leech, of which, the island has none. And, of course, there was no fire one week ago; there are seldom ever fires on Uffa. I understand that thebuildings are largely inflammable! Now if you've secrets that you want to keep, kindly refrain from lying about them!"

John gaped at the furious slighted man, uncertain what to do or what to say. Finally, after a mere moment of being afraid of being charged and attacked by Professor Challenger, John broke into a smile and began to laugh.

Challenger gruffly folded his arms, still bristling with indignity and shoulders flexed in anger; the image of wronged aggression.

"I feel that a forked tongue is no laughing matter!" He boomed.

John found he couldn't answer him for several more seconds. When he did look up he was gasping for air and smiling.

"I apologize," He said mildly, amicably. "I don't mean to seem untrustworthy, it isn't anything personal."

"I see," Challenger said eyeing John up and down. "You don't have to say anything more to me. I can tell your type just by the breadth of you. Not sure why I didn't see it before."

John was, for the moment, taken aback. Was this man suggesting he was a habitual liar? How could he after knowing John only for a few minutes?

Challenger took a careful, calculated step back; as if he were suddenly faintly disgusted by John.

"You…you're one of those 'Rat-hunting' folks who're looking for the mythical what-cha-majig. The Giant Rat." He said with the utmost disdain, as though John had been selling second-hand chewing gum to him.

"I thought just because I hadn't seen you near the fanatics, that is to say, just because I hadn't gotten into an argument with you, you weren't one of them. Damned shame."

"Wait just one minute," John stopped him defensively. "I don't think that there is such thing as a giant rat, I'm certainly not going looking for one."

"Oh, really?" Challenger looked as though he didn't believe John.

"_And why shouldn't he_?" thought John reproachfully. "_I had lied to him three times in a row_."

What John said, in the most self-depreciating, respectful tone was: "Why don't we talk about it over breakfast? My treat to make up for my deceit? Deal?"

Challenger beamed and clapped him on the back thrice. "That's alright by me. Lead the way!"

Challenger proved himself to be an extremely learned man, and an extremely proud boastful man. While he shoveled eggs and ham into his beard, he chatted excitedly about this and that bird, and this and that fossil while John, bored to pieces, yet eager to make Challenger his friend nodded every so often when Challenger gave him a moment to squeeze a word in edgewise. By the third cup of the ship's heinous coffee Challenger had given John enough data to fill a small guide to Uffa and his earlier slight of lying to the gargantuan professor had been washed away by his gentle companionship.

"I see," John nodded absently, blowing on the thick black liquid that he had sluiced from the tin pot.

"Do you?" This was the first question Challenger had posed him, and it took John by surprise.

"I'm pretty sure. The commander of the island is in the center building, the smallest one and all of the employees live and work in the radiating buildings. The most important people live closer to the center."

"That's right. Good way of doing things if you ask me; a man will always know where to go if he wants something done!" Challenger joined in John's absent nodding, lifting and dropping his monumental head majestically.

"And the Company name is Morrison, Morrison and Dodd?" John decided, with a steely, unhappy resolve that it was time to start fishing for information. He had waited to see if some sort of inquiry of his would just emerge naturally in Challenger's conversation, but most of the man's focus had been on flora and fauna. It had been a fascinating and informative chat, and John had been indebted to the strange Professor for causing the first laugh to emerge from him in several months but now it was time to start working.

"Didn't something terrible happen to the two co-owners?"

Challenger wiped his plate with the top of a blueberry muffin and tossed the sticky, sloppy sweet into his mouth, chewing contemplatively. When he swallowed, he leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered: "They're both dead. Mysterious circumstances. Nasty business."

"So, there goes the Morrison, Morrison bit of the name?"

Challenger tapped his sharp nose with one sausage finger. "You've got the thing. Dodd inherited the whole thing. Had a few close calls, but so far he's managed to stay alive long enough to enjoy it."

John started to continue, but the captain announced via loud speaker that they would be departing in one hour.

"Golly, and here I haven't packed yet!" Challenger shouted as the echo faded. He lifted his huge frame from the small, pink table and loomed over the graveyard of plates he'd left behind.

"Thank you very much for breakfast, you're forgiven for your earlier trespasses." He said buttoning his boyish overcoat over a slightly distended belly.

"You're welcome, and thank you." John returned politely.

"I hope to see you around while I'm at Uffa." Challenger said beaming enigmatically.

As he turned to go, he added: "Perhaps I can _deduce_ what you're doing on the island."

John watched him walk until he disappeared around a corner and into the ship. For lack of something better to do he sipped his coffee, all the while lingering on the last few words. Specifically _deduce_.

Challenger was an interesting man. He was intimidating, mysterious and remarkably crude, yet there was something childish and honest about him that made his seem very plainly set before John. He felt as though twenty minutes had been enough to learn the man intimately.

Then again, people were rarely what they seemed at first glance, and first impressions are often entirely wrong. The last words of his hung heavily around him. As a man on a secret government mission, having someone promise to dog his every movements and attempt to pry his secrets was a bit unnerving. In a man such as Challenger, that rare combination of intelligence, craft and brute aggression was often the mark of a great machinating criminal mind. He was mysterious; dangerously so.

But more importantly he had made John laugh. As clichéd as it seemed, John couldn't remember the last time he'd genuinely cracked up over something, he really couldn't. The thought bothered him for a moment, until he recalled the annoyed, ruffled glare Challenger had shot him, seeming like a great florid chicken who had just been harassed. The edges of his face pulled up into a grin, and didn't care to recede even when the monstrous bill arrived. It helped that Mycroft was paying for the trip out of his pocket, and not John's.

John drifted dreamily back to his cabin and shoved his few personal affects into the single solitary case he'd brought with him, all the while contemplating his strange new friend.

At the word deduce, his hand had begun trembling and hadn't stopped. It make folding impossible, thus he merely bundled his clothes and stuffed them into the case. He'd had enough of his psychosomatic issues clouding his trip, and he refused to tolerate any more delays. He pointedly ignored the shaking and tried to fold some clothes as best he could.

Professor Challenger was crude, brutish, and aside from his domineering intelligence and demanding pride he was Sherlock's opposite in every way.

Perhaps that was why John liked him so damn much.

* * *

**Dear Edhla, this chapter was mainly for you. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. Your words gave me hope when I felt like the proverbial ostrich with my head in the ground. I've started trying to fix that comma thing, although I can't go through and re-update the rest of the story for commas. Thank you so, infinately much for your kind words, and please forgive my slow gratitude!**


	4. Chapter 4

The ocean kissed John's face goodbye with a shocking spray of icy water as the ship eased between two massive grey steamers that towered like looming mountains over the small white _Matilda Briggs_. John gripped his old battered travel briefcase and watched the white sand slink closer and closer to their boat, grimly determined to be the first passenger to disembark.

The rest of the two dozen or so passengers, minus the meager crew, seemed to be racing up and down the deck panicking as though their cabins were on fire. It appeared that much of the delicate, expensive equipment that had been the focus of many a conversation during the trip had been swapped, admired, and then lost in the duration of the voyage.

John stood apart from them, lost in his own mind. The ship could have been floating for all he cared. He was absorbed in a point of personal inquiry; ruminating over the strange case he'd been given to solve and the man who he'd been told would be meeting him at the end of the dock.

Mycroft's folder certainly had information; almost an embarrassing amount of history, family, and rumors about Mr. Dodd and all of those closest to him. John felt a perverted sense of intimacy with the man he'd never met, yet knew on deep personal levels and it bothered him immensely that he would have no opportunity to open a conversation inquiring about the man's past. He just couldn't ask him about his life when he held most of it on paper in his case

The worst part was that even though John had the man's portfolio, resume and medical records he had no idea what Mr. Dodd would actually be like. He could very well be a crabby old man who hated Mycroft's intervention and would rue his investigation as being intrusive 'snooping'. More than once, while Sherlock had been skulking behind locked doors investigating a homicide or a theft, John would be offered up as a sacrifice to these ancient evils who would waste no time divulging their rancorous opinion about everything from the government to modern music. A man only has so much patience, and John found through repeated exposure that he was something of a terror when his patience had run its course. No doubt he was a topic for discussion about 'the insubordinate youth' with more than one of the former victims of the Retirement Robbery Caper. Then again, (and this was the worst possibility that presented itself yet) seeing as how the man had worked so long at the same enterprise, a business that was more than merely successful, he could just as well be an older version of Mycroft.

"I'll swim back to England if that's the case," John promised himself silently.

In the cabin, John had sacrificed his bed and had carefully laid out every nuance of information he had on Mr. Dodd from corner to corner, filling up the pillows with his schooling and the rest with his business. It seemed that every moment of his life since graduation from a prestigious American school of business was dedicated to establishing and furthering Morrison, Morrison and Dodd.

It was an odd oversight that while John knew the date of every stock jump in the company's forty year history, Mycroft had omitted what it was the company did.

On deck, running his thumbs over the leathery handle of his case, twisting his fingers over every scarred ridge that had been beaten into the precious cow-hide and watching the great, sullen steam-belching boats drifting easily into the bright, crisp ocean he altered his statement. Mycroft had omitted what the company _made._

It was obvious by the towers of black smoke floating over the observable vegetation from the beach, by the tell-tale grimy rainbow of oil that pooled and swirled in the frothing wake of the _Matilda Briggs_ and also by the steamers carrying full crates from the island that _something_ was being produced and _something_ was being delivered.

John dropped the travel case which had caused his shoulder to ache and tenderly massaged the muscle, all the while fuming silently to himself. It was just like a Holmes to keep him ignorant, to keep him in the dark. Mycroft knew he would hate being left out, hate being used without being informed to what end. He knew he would be upset at not being given the full picture.

But most of all he knew it would all remind him of Sherlock.

"Damn you, Mycroft." John whispered through gritted teeth. He forced his jaws apart, afraid of hurting his teeth from clenching.

He kicked his little bag with his toe. Getting angry at Mycroft would serve no purpose; he could save that anger and indignity until he returned to England, when he could, if he so chose and given the opportunity, punch Holmes the Elder in his reluctant mouth.

"In the meantime," he thought happily. "I could simply get my revenge by detecting what it is he doesn't want me to know. I'll be on the island for more than one week; it couldn't be too hard to ask around."

Once again, the sensation of being a naughty child petulantly tormenting an absentee nanny tugged at the corners of John's good judgment. In one corner of his mind he knew that, apart from Mycroft he was once again serving his Queen and country: a dedicated loyal soldier being sent on a special mission to protect England and her interests. Beyond even England, catching a criminal and putting a murderer to justice is always the right thing to do; making his voyage a humanitarian mission as well.

If Queen and country could have found a way to hire him without having been directed through Mycroft, he might even have been excited.

"Oy! If you leave your bag lying about, you're just asking to be robbed!" a mighty slap between the shoulder blades and a voice roaring in his ear was more than enough to scare the anger and contemplation right out of John, who jumped and even emitted a low shout of fright at the sudden shock.

Professor Challenger grabbed his belly with his two dinner plate-sized hands and bellowed a deep, throaty laugh that shook his whole body and seemed to vibrate through the deck and into John's shoes. John tried to recover from the indignity of being frightened not only once, but twice by the same man. It felt as though Challenger had been trying to beat his lungs out of him with his friendly clap on the back.

"Boy-oh, you certainly are on pins and needles! Twice in one day! I know who I'm going to visit _every_ _day_ of my vacation!" He grinned, showing his white incisors and an unpleasant, mischievous twinkle in his black eyes.

"You are _so_ stealthy!" John quipped uneasily. "Like a large cat, I didn't even hear you approach."

Challenger's grin was one of true pleasure, as John had suspected it might be with the addition of genuine praise, and he patted his chest with his flat open palms, like a gorilla asserting its dominance.

"My wife feels, unduly, that I am a brute in every aspect. I shall simply have to introduce the two of you to and prove to her that I have a gentle side too, when it is required."

"I hope you don't plague _her_ with constant frights." John said kicking his bag with his heel, wondering what had compelled Challenger to approach him _this_ time. He looked at Challenger's left hand and noticed for the first time the dull glint of a tarnished gold band.

"At last!" John thought triumphantly, "Something for him to talk about that doesn't have to do with plants and animals."

"Not at all: I am as gentle as a lizard with her; though she _would_ say Tyrannosaurus. That's the way of the women-folk." Challenger chortled at his own joke.

Suddenly, Challenger became rigid and his face flushed with anger, his eyes thunderous with a black rage. John put up his arm as an automatic defense, thinking in some corner of his traumatized mind that Challenger could be an insurgent sent to compromise his mission and kill him; or at the very least that the man was about to jump upon him and tackle him.

Blood rushed into his ears, pounding through his head like the hammer on an alarm clock: first bludgeoning one side, then the other. He felt his body become lose and his hair stand on end as Challenger seemed to hover in mid-strike reaching out for him like a tiger, claws extended to grab him.

Instead, Challenger roughly shoved him aside and roared something unintelligible at a young woman who had been carefully easing John's briefcase away from his leg.

John crashed into the railings around the edge boat, confused and still on the highest form of alert he could manage on such short notice. He had winced as he had slammed into the only barrier between him and the water, nearly knocking the breath out of him as his chest took the brunt of the force. His shoulder sent shocks of electric pain through his neck and into his heart.

Carefully, clutching the railing with white-knuckled hands, he opened his eyes and looked out over the water that was rushing up to meet him, covered in a sheet of viscous waste with murky green weeds floating like tattered, bloated bodies.

He sucked in a breath; then, unsure what to do with it, he let it out in ragged pants. He was slouched where he had fallen awkwardly onto the edge of the boat, yet he could not gather the strength in his arms needed to push himself back up.

He was falling. The thought paralyzed him, sent a bolt of lightning through him, and killed him. A part of John sang out: "It was just a little trip, just get back on your feet and move on," but that sweet jewel of logic was lost in a swamp of memory.

The white sand was just as blinding as the white sun glistening off of the ocean; the pounding of the waves against the fiberglass frame of the _Matilda Briggs_ was gun fire: the school in the unnamed city being swept up in the holocaust from his nightmares again and again. The fated concrete was just as grey as the boat skimming through the stinking water; the water that smelled of oil and asphalt, like the asphalt on the road where he had sprawled face down on the dead, hard stone and had allowed himself to be baptized in cold, wet horror. When he had picked himself up and finished crossing the street the initiation was finished and he had stepped into a new life, filled with similar trials and new pain, the Third Phase of John. The mist which now tore at his face with its eager claws was just as shocking as that dumb terror, that wrenching fear, and was trying to make him slip into the black water which would drag him down… down…

Two gentle hands grasped John's shoulders reassuringly and, to his surprise, picked him up from where he lay over the railings of the boat and placed him back on his feet. Once he had made sure his trembling limbs could actually hold his weight, John cautiously turned to face the kindly, curious, pity-filled eyes of Professor Challenger.

"I didn't hurt you?" he asked first, full of apprehension.

John wasn't certain of where his voice was; it took him some moments to find it and free it from the choking grip that seemed to be tangled in his chest and throat. When he thought he could speak, he wondered how to explain all that had passed in the ten seconds or so he'd been leering over the edge of the boat. The embarrassment of having descended into an episode stung at him horribly, and he cursed all of the money wasted on therapy. He was no better off than he had been one year ago, sixteen months ago, or four years ago. His skin felt clammy and slimy with cold sweat and nervous chills as he tried to gather his wits and his breath to answer the man who had saved him from the pit of despair before his limited patience ran out.

How would he describe four years of trouble to someone he'd only met that morning?

The answer he decided upon was "don't."

"Naw," John said bravely, rolling his left shoulder, which screamed at him in bolts of pain. "Just and old war wound, it doesn't much like being touched."

"Thank Gods!" Challenger boomed, handing John his recovered briefcase. "I'd never have lived down the irony!"

* * *

**At the time of posting this I am currently sitting in a trendy book store beside an attractive Human Psychology Major enjoying the smells drifting from the small coffee shop in which I am roosting. When I think of all the madness I went through to try and post this chapter it makes me feel a bit ill and extremely relieved that this madness is finally over. I will not post the next chapter from this wondrous spot as I had previously planned, due to circumstances unforseen but it will be up tomorrow.**


	5. Chapter 5

The sun was hovering high over the crashing, cheering _Matilda Briggs_ as she slid into port with all of her passengers bursting with joviality to disembark onto the island and begin their work.

John and Professor Challenger had been speaking amiably until the passengers had realized how close the end of their sea trip was, and then they had begun to shout amiably.

"Where did you meet your wife?" John screamed.

"No, I never beat my wife!" Challenger said in his normal tone, which was still several decibels above the crew and passengers.

"No, _meet! _Where did you _meet_ her?"

"Eat? Are you hungry already? I'm still full from breakfast."

John shrugged dejectedly and began to clap and cheer and wave like all of the other passengers. He felt weak and shaky, and could have really used a long nap and a glass of cold water, but with the shore approaching and the crowd of eager people pressing to the exits already, he felt that he needed to protect his position as first off the boat, less he get shifted back and held up for countless minutes waiting in a line.

Truthfully, there were less than forty people immigrating to Uffa via the _Matilda Briggs_. Any waiting John would have to suffer while leaving the boat would be light compared to the horrors of a trendy café at the lunch rush of London, or even mid-morning traffic on Baker Street. He simply did not like crowds of any sort, period.

Crowds in his work place, at St. Bart's hospital, meant only one thing: disaster. Either some cataclysmic accident had brought a surge of badly injured people in on stretchers, clutching their bleeding appendages and demanding immediate attention from three, maybe four doctors and nurses at any single time, or someone in particularly bad shape had come in and required the attention of every doctor present.

John had only seen the latter phenomenon twice; once when a man had been carried to the waiting room sporting a brand new screwdriver wedged in his ear canal, and once when a twelve year old girl had begun mysteriously to cough up blood.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and shaded the sun from his eyes. He was trying to make himself feel better, and remembering the girl made him sick to his stomach. The sun flashing off of the water was blinding. Even with his eyes shut the light penetrated his lids, slashing with blades of fire.

He swallowed over an awkward lump that had been building in his throat and tried to breath around it. He covered his face with his hands, finally blocking out the light and leaving him to brood in darkness.

He hated himself silently, amid the roar of cheers and laughter John whispered poison to himself. He had had an episode right on board the deck. It was a small wonder he didn't just start screaming right then and there, let the whole world know how damaged he felt, how damaged he _was._

The cane fit into the curvature of his hand as though it was meant to be, as though they had been made together, born together, with his eventual crippling in mind.

Embarrassment clawed at his deepest sense of pride and tore away precious chunks from the scarce bit he had manage to salvage. Surely Challenger had noticed something; thought he was odd, or easily startled or even traumatized.

It took a second for the truth to settle itself in the recesses of John's still malleable mind: that he _did_ startle easily, and that he _was_, to some extent, traumatized.

"No, I don't want to be that way!" he mouthed silently, still gently cradling his face in his palms.

When he considered how much he had sacrificed, the time, the money and every personal boundary he had ever set up between himself and the world; all that he had sacrificed just for the sole purpose of some normalcy in his increasingly agonized life he cursed his fortune hopelessly.

Therapy was not cheap, and as Mycroft had said: he knew the state of his affairs better than anybody. He had crawled back to his therapist directly after _the event_ specifically because he knew he would have trouble coping. He had done the right thing to try and avoid trouble, yet as time crept on his condition went from bad, to worse, to horrible.

He took some time off from the clinic to mourn: that was the normal thing to do. Then the nightmares started again and his old friends became dead friends every night in the folds of his dreams. For a time, that took his mind off of Sherlock.

His therapist urged him to join group after group for coping with war, and loss, loss from the war and the war of loss. She encouraged him to be open with his feelings and, hour after hour, she needled her way into the places he wanted no one to find. Whenever he expressed reluctance she would just look at him sadly down the rim of her glasses, much to his agrivation.

"Poor little man," she seemed to say, "So much to hide, so much tormenting his fragile spirit."

She found her way through Sherlock, the part of his life he had been the most open about, blogging about Sherlock right up until…

And from Sherlock she found Sarah, and Jeanette and all of the girls he'd seen. She pressed tenderly on how none of the girls stayed with him for more than six months, and in John's mind turned each woman into a weapon to be used against him. Later, when he told her how he had stopped visiting Angelo's, the restaurant he and Sherlock used to frequent together, she prodded at him with a sharp: "Just like how you stopped calling Anna, is that right?"

Over time, John had felt that his therapist had torn away at his layers one by one, exposing the raw skin underneath. She had started by tearing through Sherlock, precious Sherlock, as one might attempt to remove wallpaper. She took everything he said in massive chunks, clinging to the edges and fringes of vague stories and descriptions and she ripped it up revealing everything he'd attached to it: all of his pride, his usefulness, his home and his faith. Maybe she could have helped him then, but all he felt was the exposure, the embarrassment. He felt that each time he sat in that hideous chair the throne of depressed housewives, enraged adolescences and men with whispers ringing in the space between their ears with its single faded pink rose spiraling into nothing on the plush beige cushion he was naked, set out before her plainly without any dignity or pride at all. When he went home he forgot all that he had said to her, all that she knew and all that he remembered but the merest act of putting himself back at her mercy, back in the chair reminded himself of all the weapons she had at her disposal. He found himself ruing the story he told her about Sherlock's harpoon, or the time Mrs. Hudson had mice in her pantry.

He also knew that he tried to be open with her, he tried to give her all that she needed to make him better, to make the trembling and the limp vanish. Only she was left to be his savior, and all of his faith was now channeled into the torture of those blessed weekly visits where he would offer himself for her cutting tongue in hope of eventual salvation. He was giving aid to his prosecutor.

She in turn assured him that the persecution was all in his head, all the while pricking at his faint memories of war, dead friends too numerous to count, plunging her dagger-like eyes into his, thrusting his love, parents and adventures into that sandy backdrop of his sub-conscious: that sparkling desert that swallowed all the faces he had once loved. Now the monster ate the people he'd been protecting from the tearing winds, the desert wasn't just for his army buddies, it was for Sherlock and Harry and all of the girls he'd seen pass before him in a fleeting moment carelessly.

Sickeningly he wondered if his nightmares would choose another face and adapt themselves to fit his worst horrors as they had manipulated Sherlock and Tom the night before.

His shoulder chose that moment to complain about being used for so long, and John smiled. If he were to tear away the layers, he knew what he would find: the pink, soft tissue of a wound rubbed raw and angry by constant prodding and aggravation.

Nothing had changed, and nothing could save him. Nothing could be done, so John decided to react with nothing: to feel nothing and do nothing. It was revenge on a universe that was just trying to levy a response out of him.

Challenger nudged him lightly, "Look alive, or you'll be trampled! These people are downright animals. What's wrong? Seasick?"

John glanced up and was blinded by the sudden assault on his senses, the light sending burning arrows into his eyes, the chattering and screaming of the passengers excited for the chance to get their hands and test tubes on Uffa, the salt tickling his nostrils and the sun's warmth bleeding into his face and neck, melting the left over ice in his veins.

"Just tired," he said.

"What?"

"Tired!" he yelled.

"What?"

John smiled and gave Challenger an informative shrug. It didn't matter what he said, he was moments away from meeting the man he was sent for. Whatever man had slumped against the railing of the boat, sickeningly close to falling in the ocean and gripped with terrors of a past life, was gone.

He realized he had passed a threshold, a gateway to happiness that he'd been standing outside of for quite some time. The key had been the ease with which he had forgiven the kindly woman who had tried, and failed to help him find purpose in a world untorn by war, in a place both damaged and battle scarred through events which he, the soldier, could play no part.

England was gone. It had vanished somewhere near where the sun had awoken and had been swallowed by an unfeeling sea just as simply as you please, as easily as an antacid pill. It had dipped down beneath the waves and had been flushed clean. The Thames had swollen and washed away Tower's bridge and the Tower both in one great surge. The offices where he took his weekly sessions were submerged and now played host to group therapy for fish. The London eye had probably peered over the water for a time, letting the salt water lap into its rainbow colored iris, then it had fallen shut on the whole dismal scene.

Whatever humanity had thought of Dr. John Watson was gone, vanished with the people and places he'd left behind. Now he had new experiences to add to his repertoire, Challenger to talk with, Challenger who knew nothing of his past or present troubles beyond his fainting spell at the edge of the boat. He had a new mission to aim for, to focus on and to devote himself to. The last hurdle that stood between him and that sweet oblivion which comes when dedicating one's self wholly to a task so as to exclude everything else was Mr. Dodd.

First impressions were always John's favorite part of a relationship: they were the chance to begin molding an image of himself in someone else, a conviction of perfection or humanity; whatever happened to spark a long-term relationship, whatever happened to suit the inkling of the hour.

They mattered all the more since his cane often inspired a certain bias in people, which was, more often than not, completely wrong.

* * *

**Two in the same month?! Madness! But, it is so! Voila!**


End file.
